Through our eyes
by LaxusPlayer
Summary: A collection of short horror stories based on day to day lives in the style of H.P Lovecraft, James Herbert and Junji Ito.


Headphones

 _A/N: So, in the past few years I have become even more of a horror fan than I previously was, and so thought that it may finally be time to try writing some horror stories. It's a bit different to what I usually do, but here goes…_

The commute to work had never been the most exciting part of my day. Ever since I started working at the young young age of 20 the constant moving and rush and push never thrilled me. Whether it be at 7am for a morning shift or 7pm at a late shift there was always some urgent need for humanity to hurry through everything. Getting my first car at 23 only deepened my appreciation for these things, as then my eyes were opened to the thrills of traffic queues, aggressive drivers and panicked toll booth attendants, always wearing manic looks on their face and using strained tones.

Looking back now, all these minor events were leading up to the car accident that struck me two decades later. A side on collision at a roundabout. The car I owned was completely totalled and I received a minor concussion and, luckily, only a sprained ankle for my troubles.

However, the damage was not what I took away from the incident. It was the sight of the other man crawling up his car bonnet to retrieve his work gear for the day. Being trapped in my own mess of twisted metal allowed me to observe the scene from a front row perspective as he painfully crawled over broken glass with an almost divine sense of purpose. I was captivated by the spectacle, which was performed to the tune of ominous music from a broken radio, so much so that I didn't even notice my own injuries for many minutes.

Or that the man's legs were no longer attached to his body.

The police told me afterwards, once the shock had faded and I was safe in a hospital, that the other driver had been running late for a meeting, which explained his reckless driving. What it did not explain was why he had valued progress at work over self-preservation.

Despite this, the kicker of this tangent was image published in a news article the next day of the incident. There is no proof of this aside from my work as the article itself was quickly taken down to be reworked; and rightly so. The image was a close-up of the man in his last moments clutching his torn laptop bag. In his final struggle back into his car he had snagged his throat on a piece of the windshield, ripping it wide open to display the mangled mess of flesh and arteries beneath the skin. To me, however, it was his eyes that left the impression. They never left the bag…

But I digress.

Following the accident and short rehabilitation I was left with no choice but to return to the world of public transport. Hobbling along the bus station at a godforsaken time on my first day back at work, I remember finding myself becoming caught up in the rush itself. Which bus did I take? Where was the correct stop to get off at? Would I even have correct change for the fare?

Luckily, I was snapped out of my daze by a striking and, dare I say, rather beautiful lady in red, who must have taken pity on the frantic, limping mess before her. After hearing me blurt out my reasons for hurrying, she efficiently directed me to my bus, informed me of the ticket price and told me where was best to get off. Coincidentally, it was the same bus she was on, and over the course of a few weeks we became good travelling companions on out morning commute. I of course neglected to mention that on the night before the first day I had researched the journey in detail online, as I'm sure she neglected to mention the fact that I had worn my shirt inside out.

Weeks turned to months and though my ankle had almost healed completely, my enjoyment for bus travel meant that buying a new car had not even crossed my mind. The Red Lady and I had begun playing a game where we made up stories about the other regular passengers on the bus; a game which we got quite into.

Old Jones was an elderly gentleman with a walking came who was on the bus before us each morning. He was never without a cane and a hat, and though he was more than likely going to visit relatives we fancied him as an ex-adventurer who was protecting his secret treasure.

Veiny Val was a rather tall lady who was only on the bus Tuesday and Thursday and, as her name suggested, had a very prominent vein in the middle of her forehead. I initially thought the name was somewhat cruel, but Val's resting face always seemed to be scowling and her presence was incredibly unwelcoming. We deemed her distaste for others unworthy of a nicer name and thus Veiny Val was set in stone.

The Beef Boys were three larger men in their mid-thirties who had the unfortunate odour of rotten meat, not that any of them too a breath to smell it. They were the generic football fans who were constant fountains of information regarding player transfers, new tactics and team goals. Now to be fair to the three, on the one occasion where I dropped my wallet they did kindly pick it up for me and they never once were overly loud or obnoxious, but their smell was by far their most defining feature and that's what stuck. The Red Lady and I pictured them akin to the three stooges of mafia or the hired muscle for a not-so-legal business.

Over the months there were other characters too that we made. Sleazy Simon and his slicked back hair. Tall Tom and his constant hunching to fit into the seats. We made tens if not hundreds of little stories to keep ourselves amused, and it really was great fun.

Then Headphones started coming.

At first, he looked like a stereotypical young man. An averaged sized person with large headphones over his head with a wire tucked into his cleanly ironed shirt. Unassuming and ordinary by all accounts. In fact, the only thing that brought him to our immediate attention was the fact that he sat in the seat in front of us, smiling away absent minded at whatever music he was listening to. Every day he got on two stops after we did, and the Red Lady said that he got off on the same stop as she did, which was two after mine. Again, nothing unusual.

After a month or so we were growing a little bored of our game. The regulars were looping in their conversations and habits, and there were hardly any new passengers to utilise for the game. Frightened that my conversations with the stunning woman beside me, who I had grown a bit too fond of, were ending, I decided to take an interest in the man.

Hushed tones were used to observe his music choice, which to this day I cannot decipher. I suggested that it was some form of heavy rap, while the Red Lady was adamant that it was metal, but either way the hum and eerie spikes of the beat were all we could hear. We noted that his lock screen consisted of a pretty young girl who probably was his partner, and that she was more than likely the reason that he came in to work with a smile on his face. It was also probable that she was the reason that he was so well dressed, as his awkward head bobbing to the music and stumbling steps gave us the idea that Headphones wasn't the most coordinated person we had met.

Then one day his smile dropped.

It was a Thursday if I remember correctly and the weather outside was not anything remarkable, but when we watched him get on the bus there was a notable droop in the corners of his lips. The Red Lady told me the following day that getting off the bus his features had remained, and that he had been a lot slower to move from his seat.

The following week saw a further decrease in his happiness and increase in his music, which made it all the more unnerving. We started to see that his hair was becoming more and more unkempt and that the bags under his eyes were growing. The Red Lady noted that perhaps it was due to work pressures, to which I countered that it could be pressures at home. My suspicions were confirmed the next day when his phone's lock screen had changed from the pretty young girl to some dark demonic looking figure.

The game we played ended after that and we began debating whether or not to comfort Headphones. As he sunk further into his state of depression, I realised strangely enough that I felt invested in this stranger whose life I knew nothing about.

I thought back to my previously forgotten feelings of rushing and noticed that even though I had escaped it for so long on this bus, the tendrils of urgency were slowly creeping back into my life. A mixture between uncomfortable smell the young man was producing and the increasingly heated conversations with the Red Lady took my enjoyment of the ride to work away, and once again I found myself considering getting a car.

On the penultimate day of travelling, I had my final conversation with the Red Lady. Headphones had devolved into such a state that the two of us were on the verge of crying for an intervention. I maintained that we had no real stake in his life and so were not qualified or required to make a change to it, whereas she argued that he was in such obvious distress that not making an effort to help him would be cruel. Had it not been for the now blaring music, I'm sure Headphones himself would have heard her final cry of "If we don't act, then he will!" like the rest of the bus, but at the time I was hurrying off the bus and away from her.

I wish I'd listened.

The next day two distinct changes happened. First off, the Red Lady, who before this had never missed a ride there, was nowhere to be seen. I was both relieved and saddened by this, as while our conversations were becoming colder, I still enjoyed her company. Slinking into my seat for the final time, I sighed and waited to see Headphones' state this day. I almost jumped out of my skin at the sight of him.

He was smiling.

Well, I say smiling. Looking back now, whatever he wore on his face was most certainly not a smile, but in my half awake and startled self that day I took it for a smile.

" _Fantastic!_ " I thought, " _I was right! I knew he would work it…_ " I remember stopping mid thought when I the look in his eyes.

It was the same one I had seen from the man in the car accident.

My mind was ablaze with thoughts and suddenly the metal box I was riding in began to feel a lot less safe. My senses heightened, and I became aware of the fact that the rest of the passengers were also fixated on the demented boy in front of me. The next few stops flew by in a blink of an eye as Headphones, still wearing that crazed look, continued to listen to his music.

But now my attention had shifted away from his dutiful eyes and his now torn, ripped clothing to his music. It too reminded me of that day, and some part of me instinctively reaching and pressed the stop button on the bus. My legs moved on their own and before I knew it I was off the bus three stops before my destination. I cursed my own folly, as the next service was half an hour away, but when I arrived late to work I was greeted with amazed looks and overjoyed responses. Confused by their response, my questions were answered in a horrifying way by a live news coverage of the horrific events unfolding.

At this moment I wish to clarify that I had paid no attention to the unusually large backpack that Headphones had brought with him on the bus that day. I also had no way of knowing that his girlfriend had been stabbed many weeks prior. It had taken her many days to die in hospital, the police report later told me, and afterwards he had taken to trying to find the muggers with very little success. He still needed to work to fund this obsession; hence the frequent trips to his work, but he had little time for anything like self-care. When his search proved fruitless, Headphones had decided that the only thing worth living for was his daily routine, which in turn was interrupted by the company he worked for going bust. That day on the bus his backpack had contained a mixture of flammable materials and knives to get him there, but the paranoia of everyone looking at him must have gotten to him first.

Six dead including him. Old Jones turned out to be a widower who was estranged from his family. His daily trip was to his wife's grave to deliver flowers, and then to the local pub to see his few remaining friends. Veiny Val was also isolated but loved working at her corner shop. I was surprised by the number of tributes paid to her by her colleagues and some of the customers there, and last I visited the establishment there was a picture to remember her hung behind the till. We were fairly close to the Beefy Boys. The three were childhood friends who worked for a meat processing plant, and then tended to get somewhat aggressive on nights out afterwards. Nevertheless, they were still fondly remembered by their friends and family. All of them leading very different lives, but all having the common goal to get to their destinations for the day unimpeded by tragedy.

Unlike Headphones.

Nobody came forward upon his death to apologise or criticise. No family. No friends. Not even work colleagues came to comment. The climactic two-hour standoff between him and the police ended in literal flames when one his homemade explosives went off in his hands, igniting himself and the hostages. To the rest of the world, he was the situation's madness. From the outside, these normal people's lives were cut horribly short by a deranged man in a desperate situation.

But to me the madness' source was quite different. I don't know when I started noticing during my watching of the live confrontation, but I can remember making a mental check of all the people hurrying past on their way. A few turned to look as they continued their journey, and one or two even slowed down to an almost stationary position to observe, but after a few seconds all of them continued their journey.

I would be lying if I said the ordeal didn't haunt me. After a few weeks I had bought myself a new car and pretended to brush the experience off, but at night time I still relive getting off that bus. Except this time the eyes are all on me. Those fervent eyes, following me as I leave them to their deaths. I never got to see the Red Lady again, and though I often catch a fleeting flash of the colour in my wingmirrors or when I'm walking, I am still waiting to tell her that she was right. We could have stopped him.

Alas, the time grows late, and I must be up tomorrow. In these recent months I've been finding greater solace in my work, and I actually seem to look forward to it. I've also found the reason for humanity's rush, or at least what I can imagine it to be. For the longest time I used to imagine everyone hurrying on their way to get to wherever they needed to be for that day, but it's just not true. They're not rushing towards something, they're rushing away from the madness that surrounds them. That's why the man rushed to get his bag from the car, and that's why those drivers passed the bus by. With so much madness and uncertainty in this world, so many incorrect guesses and decisions, it would be crazy not to want to be somewhere secure and steady. So, this must be their answer.

My answer.

It must be.

 _A/N:_ _Any help and criticism would be appreciated for this; I'm still pretty new so I need all the help I can get. Hope you liked it; I'll see when the next idea comes to me. Any requests or ideas you want to send me I'll do my best to bring it to life._


End file.
